


Before the by-and-by

by coruscantguard (nadiavandyne), nadiavandyne



Series: 2020 Fic Challenges [3]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Abuse Apologism, Angst, Child Abuse, Clone Trooper-Typical Identity Issues, Commander Fox Week, Gen, Humor, Undercover Missions, child endangerment, horrific implications masked by humor and Fox complaining, the fact that fox is the GOOD parental influence here terrifies me ngl
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-10
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:06:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25006648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nadiavandyne/pseuds/coruscantguard, https://archiveofourown.org/users/nadiavandyne/pseuds/nadiavandyne
Summary: Coruscant, Level 1329, 22BBY"Do you know who I am?”Fox freezes as a young voice-- a child’s voice, really-- cuts him off. He waits for a second, to see if anyone else is going to reply, and when no one does, he sighs and sends the bartender what he hopes is an apologetic smile, but probably looks more like a pained grimace.(or, before the Imperial Court existed, Ysanne Isard was raised in the heart of the Republic. She must have met Fox at least once, right?)
Relationships: Ysanne Isard & CC-1010 | Fox
Series: 2020 Fic Challenges [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1810486
Comments: 3
Kudos: 57





	Before the by-and-by

**Coruscant, Level 1329, 22BBY**

"Do you know who I am?”

Fox freezes as a young voice-- a child’s voice, really-- cuts him off. He waits for a second, to see if anyone else is going to reply, and when no one does, he sighs and sends the bartender what he hopes is an apologetic smile, but probably looks more like a pained grimace.

The bar is much too empty for the kid to be talking to anyone else, and considering how nonexistent his luck is, Fox is pretty damn sure the kid is talking to him.

The kid is small, humanoid, and she’s making a face at him. The kid is much, _much_ too small to be in a bar. The kid is dressed like a tiny bounty hunter.

But Fox is undercover right now. And that means the answer should be no. _Is_ no. Because his undercover self _doesn’t_ know anyone.

So he’s already saying the word no when he realizes that _no_ , actually, that’s not correct. He does know the kid.

He’s seen the kid around the Senate building before. He’s seen the kid around RCMOP before. Osik, he’s seen the kid in _both_ Senate Bureau and Republic Intelligence meetings before. He vividly remembers wanting to ask why a child was in a briefing, and he remembers not doing that, because contrary to poular opinion, Fox is not stupid _or_ suicidal.

(It’s not like it was _that_ weird the kid was there-- Fox learned about similarly brutal massacres as a cadet, just not via military briefing. If her father is fine with it, and the Chancellor is fine with it, then yeah, a kid who barely comes up to his elbow can sit in on a briefing about the Malevolence and the ion cannons. Fox supposes that the weirdness is probably because he’s used to natborns... _coddling_ their children more. Maybe it’s just a Senator thing?)

“You’re Director Isard’s daughter,” he tells her, and he’s certain of that. Now that he’s looking, it’s obvious. She’s a spitting image of her father, from the inky black hair and white stripe above her temple to the casual look of chilly disdain on her face as she readjusts her stance.

He silently pleads with the Force that the kid doesn’t want him to actually know her name, because he’s got no idea about that little tidbit of information.

Thankfully, it doesn’t seem like the kid wants that, because she just sends him a toothy grin, before putting her hands on her waist and tilting her head to the side. Since cadets tend to loose their teeth at around three standard, and because he’s _pretty_ sure it’s the same for natborn humans, the kid is probably at about seven standard in human years.

“I am!” she says, and waits for a second, before leaning in to whisper, “and _you’re_ the Clone Commander of the Coruscant Guard.”

Fox blinks in surprise. Because, well. He’s _undercover_. “Right now I’m a bounty hunter from Coreilla,” he quickly corrects, keeping his voice at a low murmur. “But yes, I am,” he replies, because she’s not wrong, and he’d rather her not fight him about actually being a clone.

“I know,” the kid says. “I know what I’m going to be,” she informs him matter-of-factly. Fox blinks again, because. Just. _What_.

“Do you now?” he finds himself asking as he slowly backs up, bringing the two of them away from prying ears and eyes. He’s not exactly sure what the kid is talking about, but if it’s going to break his cover, he’d rather be near a door for it.

“Mmmhmm,” she says, nodding vigorously as she follows. “The Director of Intelligence. “

_Kark’s sake, what the kark, Director Isard, why is your child here--_

“After all, I am to be my Father’s heir,” the kid announces as they spill out onto the street. ‘So maybe you’ll work for me one day!”

“Maybe,” Fox allows, and he grabs the kid’s hand as he starts moving down the street. He’s obviously not going to meet with his contact when there is a cadet-aged child there, so his plan has to change. “It’s good to have drive,” Fox says noncommittally, andhe _could_ find the leather-rats and drop her off with them, but the CSF is corrupt at best, and he’d rather not be the reason Director Isard’s kid turns up dead in a ditch--

“Dad says that when children aren’t given purpose, they grow up to be unmotivated and... in-comp-e-tent.” She pauses, scrunches up her nose. “I think that’s what he said, anyway.”

Suddenly, he feels a tug on his hand, and realizes that she’s stopped in the middle of the road. Of _course_.

“Lady Isard,” he starts, and her eyes widen.

“Nope!” she says, cutting him off, and she goes digging in her dress’s pockets until she pulls out a small black comm unit. “Undercover, remember?”

The kid slaps the comm on her wrist before he can even begin to consider how to reply to that, and she hits a button. A digital passport pops up, with a photo of her on it. “Right now, I’m Anne Antilles! Your daughter. Uh, here. Dad told me to give this to you,” she says, and shoves a crumpled up piece of flimsi at him. And--

_Director Isard sent his karking child to level 1329 **alone** to play messenger?_

Right. Okay. That’s, whatever. Not important. Not his jurisdiction, not his business.

Fox nods once, but then he sees _something_ out of the corner of his eye, and he’s moving. He grabs her under her arms, lifts her up so he can get both of them off the main street. The shadows of an alley greet them, and his pace is brisk as he moves away from what _might_ be one of the leather-rats’ patrols. The kid masks her surprise in seconds, and she wraps her legs around him as he settles her on his hip. Her arms loop around his neck automatically, and osik, at least the Director’s kid knows how to make a quiet getaway. The kid is silent-- impressively so, he can barely hear her breathing-- and they make it out onto another street without any fanfare.

Fox skims the updated mission parameters flimsi with one hand as he walks. This could... go very badly very quickly if he’s not careful. Director Armand Isard is not a forgiving man. The fact that his daughter is apparently joining Fox on this mission is a fact that threatens to be a Problem with a capital peth, and he’d really rather it not be. 

Force’s sake. Why didn’t Thire get this mission? Thire is good with kids. Thire _likes_ kids. Thire would probably like this.

“Can I have a blaster?” the kid suddenly asks in an exaggerated whisper.

“No,” he says, because he learned _that_ lesson well enough.

“Come on! I know how to use them,” the kid protests.

“Still a no.”

“Dad-uh, my _other_ dad would let me have a blaster,” she complains, and Fox snorts. He does not doubt that for even a second. “Wait, should I call you Papa instead of Dad?”

“Nope.”

“But I can’t call you _both_ Dad.”

“Yes, you can.”

“Here, I’ll call my dad Dad, and you can be, um... Buir!”

_Oh Force karking hell, lords of kriffing atron, kark me--_

“Wait, you clones _do_ know Mando’a, right?”

“Yes, most of us do,” Fox grits out, as he silently resolves to never go on an undercover mission ever again. It’s not a resolution he’ll be able to actually fulfill, but it’s nice to at least consider it. “And you can just call both of us dad. In fact, that’s what you’re going to do. Okay?”

He is going to get so, so drunk after this mission, and hopefully forget the entire goddamn thing. Thank the Force that Cody isn’t here right now, kriffing hell. If his batchmate made a crack about him being in a relationship with the karking _Director of Republic Intelligence_ , Fox would be obliged to kill him, which would then make both Wolffe and bottle-blonde pissy, and he has enough problems as it is.

“Ugh. _Fine_. You’re boring.”

“Didn’t you just say that I’m Dad?”

The kid hits him for that, which, okay, that’s fair. He’d hit Cody if Cody made that joke.

Then she tightens her grip around his neck, and he has to actually fight back a snicker. The kid is _maybe_ 50 pounds soaking wet though, so strangulation isn’t an effective method of punishment. He then tells her so, because he’s pretty sure Thire once said something about how helping children grow and improve their skills is important.

“If I want to strangle you, you won’t see it coming,” she shoots back, but she slowly loosens her hold again. “You’ll be dead, because I’ll actually strangle you.”

“Oh, yes, I’m sure you will,” he replies, voice dry, as they turn onto a smaller, more crowded street. “Sometimes miracles do happen.” This is where the contact the Director wants him to meet with _should_ be...

“ _I_ don’t believe in miracles,” the kid replies haughtily, sounding almost offended, and she sniffs in what Fox guesses is distaste. “I’m an Isard! We make our _own_ luck.”

 _I’m an Isard_ , she proclaims, and the flinch Fox stifles is instinctive, his body reacting and putting him on high alert before his mind has even started processing. _I’m an Isard_ , she says, and he casts his eyes out to the crowd to check and see if anyone reacts to the name, because kriff, worst timing ever there, kid. If the Director’s contact is paying attention, hears the Director’s name, and if he thinks he’s about to be brought in--

Well. It’s best not to consider that possibility prematurely. He can deal with it _if_ it occurs.

(And Fox is pretty damn sure that this, _this,_ is why the Republic doesn’t use cadets for undercover missions. No matter how good one might be with a blaster, they’re still shinier than the gleaming armor of the bastards in blue, and that’ll always show in _some_ way.)

“You’re an Antilles,” he reminds the kid, and he forces himself to breathe through the instinctive flash of both anger and annoyance. _Director Isard’s kid_ , he reminds himself. _Could ruin your life with one word_.

The kid’s eyes widen as she realizes what she did, and he can tell that she’s seconds away from looking back over his shoulder in panic, which would undoubtedly give them away, so he bops her on the nose.

The kid punches him in the neck in retaliation, but she manages to keep herself from giving them away, so Fox dismisses it. “We _do_ make our own luck, though,” she mouths to him after a few seconds of silence, because apparently _someone_ really wants the last word.

Fox just nods in response, ceding the point to her. He’s not about to argue with an eight year old about luck, and considering her tone of voice, he’s 99% sure that she’s just repeating something that someone told her. Probably her father, honestly. Director Isard is not one to wait for the tide to shift in his favor. He’s more fond of doing whatever he must, and sacrificing whomever he must, until he can bend the tide in his favor with his own two hands. It would make sense that his daughter has a similar point of view.

It’s also a point of view Fox has never had the privilege of having, and the truth of that stings as it settles into his chest. Because none of his brothers have gotten to even consider having that point of view, without immediately being laughed at. They’re _clones_. They belong to the _Republic_. You don’t get to just _gaff off and make your own luck_ when the kriffing _Republic_ is the one that holds both your leash and noose. Not unless you want to choke on it, anyway. 

Kriffing _Natties_.

... But that’s his own karking problem, and it’s not a problem he can afford to ponder during a mission. Or ever, honestly.

Force. Hopefully the Director’s contact will show up soon. Fox would really rather start forgetting this mission sooner than later, but he can’t do that while there’s a child in his care.

**Author's Note:**

> \- RCMOP: Republic Center for Military Operations  
> Leather-rat: Slang for the Coruscant Underworld Police, insult  
> Bastards in blue: Insulting version of “Boys in Blue” which refers to the Senate Guards
> 
> \- (Yes, I did have _way_ too much fun making up these insults. Listen, Fox is crabby, okay? He's dealing with an eight year old who grows up to be a genocidal mass murderer and he works for said eight year old's father. Let him live.)
> 
> \- Anyway, this fic appeared after my brain went, _hey, you know what would be an absolute clusterfuck? Since Ysanne Isard would have been eight when the Clone Wars started, and her father almost definitely worked with Fox, there's a pretty big chance that they met at least once. You should write that._ And I was like what? No. I'm not gonna write that. And then I wrote it.
> 
> \- This fic has been eating at my brain forever and ever and ever. I do not know if it is decipherable, I simply know that it is done, and I want it out of my drafts. Begone, fic! Go see the world!
> 
> \- Come talk to me on Tumblr [@coruscantguard!](https://coruscantguard.tumblr.com/)


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